The Florist Said Every Bouquet Tells a Story — Hers Told Me to Stay

I once paid forty-two dollars for a bouquet that told me I was afraid of being happy. A stranger said it out loud, in front of a customer holding a cactus. On a Tuesday. And the worst part? She was right. I’m a lawyer. I bill in six-minute increments. I own a label maker, and I’ve used it on my own feelings. I walked into a flower shop to buy roses for my sister’s wedding, and I walked out with a diagnosis, a crush I refused to name, and an overwhelming need to go back. This is the story of how a florist read me like a legal contract and found the loophole I’d spent thirty-four years hiding.